acuminated satire, detract more from scenic illusion than they add to histrionic effect. The dialogue of this play is no more akin to actual conversation, than the quick step of an opera dancer to the haste of pursuit or terror. No actor could give it the unpremeditated air of common speech. But there is another and more serious obstacle to the success of the "Way of the World," as an acting play.* It has no moral interest. There is no one person in the dramatis persone for whom it is possible to care. Vice may be, and too often has been, made interesting; but cold-hearted, unprincipled villainy never can. The conduct of every character is so thoroughly and so equally contemptible, that however you suspend the moral code of judgment, you cannot sympathise in the success, or exult in the defeat of

any.

With all these abatements, it is impossible to read this comedy without wonder and admiration; but it

for the stage), as through an affected wit—a wit which, at the same time that it is affected, is also false. As there is some difficulty in the formation of a character of this nature, so there is some hazard which attends the progress of its success on the stage; for many come to a play so overcharged with criticism, that they very often let fly their censure when, through their rashness, they have mistaken their aim. This I had occasion lately to observe; for this play had been acted two or three days before some of these hasty judges could distinguish between the character of a wit-would and a wit."-Dedication.

* Mr. Macaulay considers this "the most deeply meditated, and the most brilliantly written, of all Congreve's plays," and finds it "quite inexplicable why it should have failed on the stage." A sufficient reason appears to be given above.-D. C.

Virtue and wickedness are sub codem genere. The absence of Virtue is no deficiency in a genuine comedy, but the presence of wickedness a great defect.-S. T. C.

is an admiration altogether intellectual, by which no man is made better.

This was Congreve's last appearance on the stage. Perhaps he had already outlived that sleepless activity of animal spirits which made his work delightful to himself, and thought he had fully earned the commendation of Dryden

Well then, the promised hour is come at last;
The present age of wit obscures the past:

Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ,
Conquering with force of arms, and dint of wit;
Theirs was the giant race, before the flood;
And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire stood.
Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manured,
With rules of husbandry the rankness cured,
Tamed us to manners when the stage was rude,
And boisterous English wit with art indued.
Our age was cultivated thus at length,
But what we gain'd in skill, we lost in strength.
Our builders were with want of genius curst;
The second temple was not like the first;
Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length;
Our beauties equal, but excel our strength.
Firm Doric pillars found your solid base,
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space;
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise;

He moved the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please,
Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.
In diff'ring talents both adorn'd their age;
One for the study, t'other for the stage.
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,
One match'd in judgment, both o'er-match'd in wit.
In him all beauties of this age we see,
Etherege his courtship, Southern's purity,

The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherley.
All this in blooming youth you have achieved,
Nor are your foil'd contemporaries grieved:

So much the sweetness of your manners move,
We cannot envy you, because we love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardless consul made against the law,
And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome,
Though he with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame,
And scholar to the youth he taught became.

Oh that your brows my laurel had sustain'd!
Well had I been deposed, if you had reign'd:
The father had descended for the son,
For only you are lineal to the throne.
Thus when the state one Edward did depose,
A greater Edward in his room arose.
But now, not I, but poetry is cursed,

For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.
But let 'em not mistake my patron's part,
Nor call his charity their own desert.
Yet this I prophesy; thou shalt be seen,
(Tho' with some short parenthesis between,)
High on the throne of Wit, and, seated there,
Not mine (that's little) but thy laurel wear.
Thy first attempt an early promise made,
That early promise this has more than paid.
So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,
That your least praise is to be regular.

Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought,
But genius must be born, and never can be taught ;
This is your portion; this your native store;

Heav'n, that but once was prodigal before,

To Shakspeare gave as much, she could not give him more. Maintain your post; that's all the fame you need,

For 'tis impossible you should proceed :

Already I am worn with cares and age,
And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage;
Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense,
I live a rent-charge on his providence ;
But you, whom every muse and grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,

Be kind to my remains; and, oh, defend
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Let not th' insulting foe my fame pursue,
But shade those laurels which descend to you;
And take for tribute what these lines express;
You merit more, nor could my love do less.

Congreve was almost as happy in the commendations of his brother authors, as in the favours of ministers, and the smiles of great ladies. Dennis, whose disease was not a plethora of complaisance, declared that Congreve left the stage early, and comedy left it with him." Though he no longer exposed himself to the brunt of a theatrical audience, he still kept his name awake by the production of occasional poems, which were highly praised in their day, but their day has long been past. They were written in the height of the fashion, and fashion was then a more potent arbitress of reputation than now. The world of literature was then the town: the town took its cue from the court, and the court echoed the decisions of some "scribbling peer," some "Lord of the Miscellanies." George the Second's Queen, Caroline, seems to have been the last personage who, by the mere prerogative of rank, could bring a book into vogue

The latter years of Congreve furnish little or nothing worth recording. Though he never took a very active part in politics, he ranked with the Whigs, and remained constant to his first patron, Halifax. Hence there was some fear lest, on the change of Queen Anne's ministry, in 1710, he might be deprived of his places. Several persons of consequence made interest with Harley, the new secretary, and Maecenas elect, that he might not be disturbed. But the minister would not have it thought that the poet owed his immunity to any interest but that of

the Muses, and answered the mediators in the words

Non obtusa adeo gestamus pectora Pœni,

Nec tam aversus equos Tyriâ Sol jungit ab urbe.

The Tories, whose best virtue is their generosity, suffered Congreve to retain his emoluments without imposing any conditions; and he, by holding them, did not conceive himself to have incurred an obligation to be ungrateful. He signalised his adherence to the ousted party in the very year of their defeat, by dedicating a collection of his works to the exminister Halifax. His fidelity was rewarded, on the return of his friends to power, with an additional place, which made his income altogether 12007. a-year. The ideas of poetry and poverty have been so long and so inveterately connected, even in the minds of poets themselves, that it is no great wonder if Congreve, in his affluence, chose to forget that he had ever exercised a craft so rarely profitable, or felt a proud reluctance to be reckoned with writers by trade. There are few anecdotes which have been more frequently repeated than that of Congreve's interview with Voltaire. The Frenchman, whose ambition was the literary supremacy of the age, was much surprised that Congreve should listen coldly to the praises of his own works, speak of them as trifles beneath him, and desire to be visited only as a gentleman living retired, and at his ease. you been so unfortunate," replied Voltaire, only a gentleman, I should not have visited you at all." The retort was just in itself: but it is somewhat harsh to censure Congreve for vanity and contemptible affectation. A man is not necessarily ashamed, or affecting to be ashamed, of his occupation, past or present, because he does not choose to make

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"Had

as to be